We are attempting the trendy stay-cation this week, having a vacation at home. So far the result has been mixed.
Yesterday we went to the Adventure Landing water park, and Husband and I were pleasantly surprised that it wasn’t a more appalling place to be. The pool water was actually cool and refreshing, considering the outside temperature was near apocalyptic, and the crowds didn’t arrive until we were ready to go. The Diva ran into a friend, so we didn’t see her for two hours. We only lost the Pterodactyl three times, and only had to pull the Tyrant’s head out of the water once. All in all it was a satisfying experience. It might have been an excellent experience if management would decide to sell alcoholic drinks, though I can see how that would dramatically increase everyone’s risk of drowning.
Today, however, Husband is working, so it was up to me to come up with the day’s activities. We went to the gym so I could think about it during my workout. I came up with a great idea -- we could watch a movie in Mommy’s bed then have a fashion show and take crazy pictures. We were all a little excited about this. But then I let the Diva carry an enormous bowl of popcorn to my room. A glass bowl. She tripped over the Disney princess suitcase the Tyrant uses to carry around important stuff, fell down and landed in a pile of shattered glass.
Her hands were covered in blood. Then I realized she had drawn tattoos all over her hands with red marker, so the blood was not so bad. But when I washed her hands I could see there were a bunch of teeny tiny shards of glass protruding from the cuts. Shit.
So I called Husband the paramedic. He said, “Shit.” So I called the doctor, and he said to bring her in because he had tweezers and a strong light and could pick out all the glass. Then Husband called back and said he was driving the fire engine over with the trauma bag.
“That seems extreme,” I said. But who am I to argue with the paramedic?
I put the three children on my bed and ordered them to stay there, and began to clean up the mess. But I couldn’t do much because I don’t know how to turn on the vacuum. (Have I mentioned that Husband has a clean floor fetish and does all the floor work himself?)
Within five minutes Husband pulled up in the gigantic ladder truck, which is used for rescuing people out of 10-story buildings when it’s not being used to pull teeny tiny shards of glass out of the hands of little girls. Husband leaped out of the truck in his official firefighting boots-pants outfit, complete with suspenders, and strutted to the front door, looking sort of hot. I had to tuck this tidbit of information to the rear of my brain since I was in a post-workout cloud of sweat, and was busy trying to act like I knew how to operate my own vacuum.
Husband removed all the glass from the Diva’s hand while she sniveled, swept up the glass and popcorn, showed me the on-button for the vacuum, kissed me goodbye and drove off in the fire truck.
Then the Tyrant ate a business card and the dog started puking up piles of mucus with grass in it.
That’s how today’s stay-cation has gone. No one’s in the mood for taking pictures at the moment, but I’ve demanded a 45-minute rest period for us all to regroup. That will take us closer to Happy Hour, which might make me more receptive to letting the children further destroy the living room by building a fashion show runway.
For now, the household seems content with some sippy-cups full of milk, SpongeBob Squarepants, and the promise of a swim if the weather holds out. By that definition, everyday is a stay-cation. Enjoy! Tomorrow, the zoo....
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
Should I go hiking? You be the judge
My ex-friend broke up with me about two years ago. She said I was too judgmental and hypercritical.
I was shocked. I cried about it to my husband. “I am not judgmental,” I told myself, and everyone who would listen. Now I’ve changed my mind, and I have a confession to make: I’m judgmental.
Just today, in fact, I was judging the woman who left her big-ass white Mercedes-Benz, engine running, in the fire lane to run in and retrieve her children from pre-school. Did she not think we all would have liked to park in the fire lane and leave our engines running? And I judge Husband just about every day. He’s obviously a lesser-developed human as only a caveman would load the dishwasher the way he does it. Don’t even get me started on the way he folds clothes.
Also, quite unreasonably, I judged the Pterodactyl to be deserving of having his fingers removed when he kept trying to hold open my eyes as he watched the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.
I’ve been thinking more about my judgmental nature in the wake of South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford’s trip to “hike the Appalachian Trail.” You know what? I’m not feeling very judgmental about it. I think the reason I’m not summoning my indignation is that I don’t really care about Gov. Mark Sanford. Not that I think he did the right thing - but it seems to me so easy to sit home on my couch and talk about what an ass he is. And I do think he’s an ass.
But I think it’s much harder to openly judge people we know. Frankly, I know lots of people - men and women - who’ve had affairs. Do you think I’ve ever said to them, “You know, I think you’re really a douchebag for cheating on your spouse.” I have not. It just doesn’t seem polite. Instead I’m blogging about it.
I do believe in forgiveness, and that people can change. For example, I do think that if Husband “hiked the Appalachian Trail,” that he would subsequently become a changed man and never “hike” it again, mainly because his “hiking” equipment would be extremely damaged.
I wish I had the courage to judge people who have, in my opinion, lost their moral compass. I would like to silently wish them well, then subtly eliminate them from my life.
Obviously this would get complicated. I’m pretty sure one of the Mother-of-the-Year’s I know has a little racist streak. But she is very, very organized, and I might need to take advantage of that one day.
Another Mother-of-the-Year recently told me that she doesn’t let her children watch any television. That’s just not right, I thought. I feel very judgmental about that. But if she wants to have my kids over and help them organize a state-of-the-art stage production with costumes and lights, I guess I’ll let them go.
I’ll just make sure get their boob tube fix before they go.
I was shocked. I cried about it to my husband. “I am not judgmental,” I told myself, and everyone who would listen. Now I’ve changed my mind, and I have a confession to make: I’m judgmental.
Just today, in fact, I was judging the woman who left her big-ass white Mercedes-Benz, engine running, in the fire lane to run in and retrieve her children from pre-school. Did she not think we all would have liked to park in the fire lane and leave our engines running? And I judge Husband just about every day. He’s obviously a lesser-developed human as only a caveman would load the dishwasher the way he does it. Don’t even get me started on the way he folds clothes.
Also, quite unreasonably, I judged the Pterodactyl to be deserving of having his fingers removed when he kept trying to hold open my eyes as he watched the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.
I’ve been thinking more about my judgmental nature in the wake of South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford’s trip to “hike the Appalachian Trail.” You know what? I’m not feeling very judgmental about it. I think the reason I’m not summoning my indignation is that I don’t really care about Gov. Mark Sanford. Not that I think he did the right thing - but it seems to me so easy to sit home on my couch and talk about what an ass he is. And I do think he’s an ass.
But I think it’s much harder to openly judge people we know. Frankly, I know lots of people - men and women - who’ve had affairs. Do you think I’ve ever said to them, “You know, I think you’re really a douchebag for cheating on your spouse.” I have not. It just doesn’t seem polite. Instead I’m blogging about it.
I do believe in forgiveness, and that people can change. For example, I do think that if Husband “hiked the Appalachian Trail,” that he would subsequently become a changed man and never “hike” it again, mainly because his “hiking” equipment would be extremely damaged.
I wish I had the courage to judge people who have, in my opinion, lost their moral compass. I would like to silently wish them well, then subtly eliminate them from my life.
Obviously this would get complicated. I’m pretty sure one of the Mother-of-the-Year’s I know has a little racist streak. But she is very, very organized, and I might need to take advantage of that one day.
Another Mother-of-the-Year recently told me that she doesn’t let her children watch any television. That’s just not right, I thought. I feel very judgmental about that. But if she wants to have my kids over and help them organize a state-of-the-art stage production with costumes and lights, I guess I’ll let them go.
I’ll just make sure get their boob tube fix before they go.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Wonderwoman? Or just a little nuts?
We all have moments or occurrences that have changed our lives. I have five: meeting my husband, meeting each of my children, and having a hysterectomy three years ago.
My uterus served me no purpose in life, and I was glad to be rid of it. I dance through the tampon aisles. Whenever I see an advertisement for Midol, my heart skips a joyous beat because I’ll never have menstrual cramps again.
Regaining control over my body re-ignited my lifelong athleticism, and, no longer hampered by the proverbial curse, I attacked a fitness regime with new enthusiasm.
Which brought me to Matt.
PART I
Matt is my personal trainer. Total alpha male. When we first met, as we sat in the gym talking, my husband walked over, put his arm on my shoulder, bent down, and kissed me on the mouth very deliberately. I later questioned him about this unusual display of affection. “Would you rather I just peed on you?” he asked.
Matt’s built like a meticulously piled stack of bricks and mortar, a short young fireplug of a guy, just turned 29, with a blocky head covered by a short blond buzz cut and some scruffy cheek growth. Strange tattoos cover his arms (and his torso, I think, but I’ve never seen it). One of them contains the word “sinner” if you look at it from one direction and “saint” if you read it upside down. Don’t ask me how this works but it does.
It’s a strange sort of intimacy that develops between trainer and trainee - Matt, after all, is slavishly devoted to my body for two hours every week. He knows how much I weigh, which of my muscles is strongest, and whether my calves have gotten bigger. He can probably estimate my body fat percentage, and he can definitely tell you when I’ve shaved my legs.
And let me tell you: thanks to him, I am strong beyond your wildest assumptions. In the gym, I can do deep-knee squats with 135 pounds on my back. I can do three sets of push-ups, a minute per set. Real push-ups. I can run a half-mile in 3.5 minutes. None of this is uncommon, of course, for athletes. But I’m a 45-year-old mother of three. I take extra fiber and a geriatric multivitamin every day. I have spider veins and have been known to complain about “kids these days.”
More important to me, though - and here’s my real strength - I can move mountains. My physical abilities carry me through the bleakest of days. When my spirit sags wearily and my kids seem to be sucking the life right out of me, my stamina powers me up. My physical strength has become my mental strength.
I have taken some heat from family and friends for having a personal trainer during this economy. It’s true that we’re not rolling in cash -- Husband is a firefighter, and we’re practically selling plasma to keep our kids in pre-school -- but I can’t give up this man. I’ve given up the cleaning lady and making do with one pair of sandals this year. I’m drinking cheaper wine, though I still can’t bring myself to buy Yellow Tail. Husband and I didn’t celebrate our 15th wedding anniversary. I’m only getting my hair cut every six months. I even gave up my yearly bikini wax.
My sister-in-law told me recently that she had gotten a personal trainer as well, and was loving it. “She’s so nice,” she told me. “Sometimes, if I’m having a bad day, she’ll just take it easy on me, and we do a lot of stretching.”
I thought about this. When I’m having a bad day, Matt says things like, “Pain is weakness leaving the body.”
My workout routine isn’t for everyone, I know that. But for me, the crow’s feet around my eyes seem a little less prominent when my triceps are visible.
And let’s face it, I’m just a little addicted to achieving what I thought was impossible. The other day, as I was doing what seemed to be my 400th set of lunges carrying a 35-pound weight in each hand, I reminded Matt that he had worn out my arms just two days earlier.
“I know,” he said. “It’s called undulating periodization.”
Undulating periodization? It would have sounded vaguely erotic had my arms not been on fire.
I would have complained had I not seen the weakness, disguised as sweat, flying into oblivion.
PART II
In addition to being my trainer, Matt has evolved into my boxing coach. Matt is one of those nutso Ultimate Fighters who can kill a man with his bare hands. How anyone steps into a fighting cage with him is beyond my comprehension. Sometimes, when he’s demonstrating a punch to me and I see his fist coming at my face, the knowledge that he would never in a million years hit me seems secondary to the fact that he can move at the speed of light.
I also take kickboxing classes. So between the classes and Matt, I’m pretty sure that, no matter who you are, I can kick your ass.
My husband works out with me occasionally, and has watched me box. He told me I looked “fierce.”
“Sexy fierce?” I asked.
“Uh, no,” he said. “Just fierce.”
I don’t care. My right hook is so strong I’ve knocked the catching glove off of my partner during sparring. There are few men brave enough to come to boxing class, but I can hold my own against any of them.
It’s one of the most empowering things I’ve ever done.
Now, I realize that lots of people might find this a little silly. And truly, I’m sure I’ve looked ridiculous at times, with my wife-beater black tank top and bandana around my head.
But there’s nothing like feeling a punch connect, even if it’s connecting with a thick padded mitt. It’s a rush, and it’s addicting, not just because of the power but because I’m unexpectedly excelling at something so improbable.
Matt has suggested - I don’t think he’s joking - that I try sparring with someone for real. I told him I think I’d be terrified. “But that’s why you do it,” he said. “If you weren’t terrified, what would be the challenge?”
Maybe I could make something happen in the ring. I have the strength, I think, and the stamina. And I have a couple of secret weapons. The first is that I’m cleverly disguised as a middle-aged suburban mother of three. And the second is - have you guessed it?
It’s my left hook.
My uterus served me no purpose in life, and I was glad to be rid of it. I dance through the tampon aisles. Whenever I see an advertisement for Midol, my heart skips a joyous beat because I’ll never have menstrual cramps again.
Regaining control over my body re-ignited my lifelong athleticism, and, no longer hampered by the proverbial curse, I attacked a fitness regime with new enthusiasm.
Which brought me to Matt.
PART I
Matt is my personal trainer. Total alpha male. When we first met, as we sat in the gym talking, my husband walked over, put his arm on my shoulder, bent down, and kissed me on the mouth very deliberately. I later questioned him about this unusual display of affection. “Would you rather I just peed on you?” he asked.
Matt’s built like a meticulously piled stack of bricks and mortar, a short young fireplug of a guy, just turned 29, with a blocky head covered by a short blond buzz cut and some scruffy cheek growth. Strange tattoos cover his arms (and his torso, I think, but I’ve never seen it). One of them contains the word “sinner” if you look at it from one direction and “saint” if you read it upside down. Don’t ask me how this works but it does.
It’s a strange sort of intimacy that develops between trainer and trainee - Matt, after all, is slavishly devoted to my body for two hours every week. He knows how much I weigh, which of my muscles is strongest, and whether my calves have gotten bigger. He can probably estimate my body fat percentage, and he can definitely tell you when I’ve shaved my legs.
And let me tell you: thanks to him, I am strong beyond your wildest assumptions. In the gym, I can do deep-knee squats with 135 pounds on my back. I can do three sets of push-ups, a minute per set. Real push-ups. I can run a half-mile in 3.5 minutes. None of this is uncommon, of course, for athletes. But I’m a 45-year-old mother of three. I take extra fiber and a geriatric multivitamin every day. I have spider veins and have been known to complain about “kids these days.”
More important to me, though - and here’s my real strength - I can move mountains. My physical abilities carry me through the bleakest of days. When my spirit sags wearily and my kids seem to be sucking the life right out of me, my stamina powers me up. My physical strength has become my mental strength.
I have taken some heat from family and friends for having a personal trainer during this economy. It’s true that we’re not rolling in cash -- Husband is a firefighter, and we’re practically selling plasma to keep our kids in pre-school -- but I can’t give up this man. I’ve given up the cleaning lady and making do with one pair of sandals this year. I’m drinking cheaper wine, though I still can’t bring myself to buy Yellow Tail. Husband and I didn’t celebrate our 15th wedding anniversary. I’m only getting my hair cut every six months. I even gave up my yearly bikini wax.
My sister-in-law told me recently that she had gotten a personal trainer as well, and was loving it. “She’s so nice,” she told me. “Sometimes, if I’m having a bad day, she’ll just take it easy on me, and we do a lot of stretching.”
I thought about this. When I’m having a bad day, Matt says things like, “Pain is weakness leaving the body.”
My workout routine isn’t for everyone, I know that. But for me, the crow’s feet around my eyes seem a little less prominent when my triceps are visible.
And let’s face it, I’m just a little addicted to achieving what I thought was impossible. The other day, as I was doing what seemed to be my 400th set of lunges carrying a 35-pound weight in each hand, I reminded Matt that he had worn out my arms just two days earlier.
“I know,” he said. “It’s called undulating periodization.”
Undulating periodization? It would have sounded vaguely erotic had my arms not been on fire.
I would have complained had I not seen the weakness, disguised as sweat, flying into oblivion.
PART II
In addition to being my trainer, Matt has evolved into my boxing coach. Matt is one of those nutso Ultimate Fighters who can kill a man with his bare hands. How anyone steps into a fighting cage with him is beyond my comprehension. Sometimes, when he’s demonstrating a punch to me and I see his fist coming at my face, the knowledge that he would never in a million years hit me seems secondary to the fact that he can move at the speed of light.
I also take kickboxing classes. So between the classes and Matt, I’m pretty sure that, no matter who you are, I can kick your ass.
My husband works out with me occasionally, and has watched me box. He told me I looked “fierce.”
“Sexy fierce?” I asked.
“Uh, no,” he said. “Just fierce.”
I don’t care. My right hook is so strong I’ve knocked the catching glove off of my partner during sparring. There are few men brave enough to come to boxing class, but I can hold my own against any of them.
It’s one of the most empowering things I’ve ever done.
Now, I realize that lots of people might find this a little silly. And truly, I’m sure I’ve looked ridiculous at times, with my wife-beater black tank top and bandana around my head.
But there’s nothing like feeling a punch connect, even if it’s connecting with a thick padded mitt. It’s a rush, and it’s addicting, not just because of the power but because I’m unexpectedly excelling at something so improbable.
Matt has suggested - I don’t think he’s joking - that I try sparring with someone for real. I told him I think I’d be terrified. “But that’s why you do it,” he said. “If you weren’t terrified, what would be the challenge?”
Maybe I could make something happen in the ring. I have the strength, I think, and the stamina. And I have a couple of secret weapons. The first is that I’m cleverly disguised as a middle-aged suburban mother of three. And the second is - have you guessed it?
It’s my left hook.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Gimme a break
The big kids drew brown marker stripes on the baby’s butt and the toilet overflowed and the Pterodactyl tracked poopy water everywhere. We bought two pairs of shoes for the Diva and brought the wrong pair home and while I was driving I had to stop a fight about who had more imaginary lollipops and I never did get a Father’s Day card off to Dad.
The Diva starts camp tomorrow and she was only going because my friend was in charge of it and my friend tells me today she got fired last month and so sorry she forgot to tell me and the Diva is supposed to pack a “trashless” lunch and what the fuck does that mean?
Husband hung up on me because I was yelling at him about babysitter issues and dog hasn’t had a real walk in days and her breath smells like a landfill. The Tyrant has learned that slapping me in the face stuns me long enough for her to get away and the Pterodactyl was so mean to his sister in Target that I pinched him.
I never did give the music teacher his end of the year chocolate basket and so now I’m gradually eating it.
I watch tv and read the news and I know what’s going on in the world and I know that I am in the luckiest, oh, .0001 percent of the world’s population, I know this. And I love my life and I really believe that I have the most beautiful children on the planet and I wouldn’t trade for a private Caribbean island the secret sign that the Diva and I share or the way the Tyrant tells me, “yuda best” or the way the Pterodactyl practically sucks my skin off when he kisses me good night.
But on some days, it would be nice to just catch a break.
The Diva starts camp tomorrow and she was only going because my friend was in charge of it and my friend tells me today she got fired last month and so sorry she forgot to tell me and the Diva is supposed to pack a “trashless” lunch and what the fuck does that mean?
Husband hung up on me because I was yelling at him about babysitter issues and dog hasn’t had a real walk in days and her breath smells like a landfill. The Tyrant has learned that slapping me in the face stuns me long enough for her to get away and the Pterodactyl was so mean to his sister in Target that I pinched him.
I never did give the music teacher his end of the year chocolate basket and so now I’m gradually eating it.
I watch tv and read the news and I know what’s going on in the world and I know that I am in the luckiest, oh, .0001 percent of the world’s population, I know this. And I love my life and I really believe that I have the most beautiful children on the planet and I wouldn’t trade for a private Caribbean island the secret sign that the Diva and I share or the way the Tyrant tells me, “yuda best” or the way the Pterodactyl practically sucks my skin off when he kisses me good night.
But on some days, it would be nice to just catch a break.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Dads who like nail polish rock
One year for my birthday my father gave me a blanket for riding bareback on my horse, and I still think of it as the best childhood present ever. Another year he came home late from a business trip on my birthday and gave me a rubber snake. Which was weird. But it was from my dad, so I named it and kept it for years as a treasured possession. (My dad will read this, by the way, and deny that the snake incident ever occurred.)
Dads are most extraordinary, imperfect creatures ever. A good one is a mixture of love and irritation, trust and suspicion, energy and laziness.
My father is the perfect mix of imperfection. His love for his daughters so overwhelms him that, these days, he cries nearly every time he talks to them. But last time we were together, he got into an argument with the 2-year-old Tyrant over potato chips.
But that’s okay. It makes for good family lore, and over the past four and a half decades such incidents have created the imperfect, deliberate mix of me.
I feel the same way about my husband-as-father. He’s currently reading the paper in bed while wearing a handmade necktie and watching a Blue’s Clues episode with the Tyrant. But he’s capable of blocking out a child’s heartfelt expressions of love in order to catch the Red Sox highlights.
I was going to write a list of good paternal attributes. But we all know what those are: love, attention, discipline, blah blah blah. Instead I’ve made a list I think I’ll call Stuff About Dads, compiled with enthusiastic nods to my father and my husband, the two best men that I know. I love you both to the moon despite the fact that you occasionally gang up against me.
Dad once gave me his fishing rod after hooking a blue marlin and let me reel it in.
Husband knows exactly what to say to calm down the children after I’ve threatened to pull the legs off their favorite stuffed animals.
Husband doesn’t get the least bit jealous when the Pterodactyl gives me open-mouthed kisses.
When I first became a journalist, my dad thought I was so good that he suggested I not put my name on my stories in case some people were offended by them.
Husband thinks daughter is so beautiful that he sort of hopes she’s gay so he won’t have to deal with boy issues.
When I was 12, Dad made his secretary type all of my poems and he published them in a little booklet called “Tricia’s Treasures.”
Husband hardly minds at all when the Pterodactyl wears pink nail polish and lip gloss.
Husband defends Pterodactyl admirably when I complain that all the bathrooms smell like pee.
Husband is self-appointed Arbiter of Homework, which is fortunate as I have so far declined to participate in nearly all school activities.
Dad has pushed the Prom Dress incident (see Prom In New Orleans blog entry) to the farthest recesses of his brain.
Dad bought me a pony when I was 8, and for years let me think that I paid for it with the $20 I had saved in my piggy bank.
Husband has nearly consented to let the Diva pierce her ears and has patiently taught the Tyrant to watch baseball with him.
Most of all, they rock because they think I rock, and on my worst days, believe me, that’s a lie they tell themselves.
So Happy Father’s Day to my dad and my husband, and to all the dads out there, and to all the moms who have to be dads, too. Hope your day is filled with homemade neckties, colorful cards and the beverage of your choice.
Dads are most extraordinary, imperfect creatures ever. A good one is a mixture of love and irritation, trust and suspicion, energy and laziness.
My father is the perfect mix of imperfection. His love for his daughters so overwhelms him that, these days, he cries nearly every time he talks to them. But last time we were together, he got into an argument with the 2-year-old Tyrant over potato chips.
But that’s okay. It makes for good family lore, and over the past four and a half decades such incidents have created the imperfect, deliberate mix of me.
I feel the same way about my husband-as-father. He’s currently reading the paper in bed while wearing a handmade necktie and watching a Blue’s Clues episode with the Tyrant. But he’s capable of blocking out a child’s heartfelt expressions of love in order to catch the Red Sox highlights.
I was going to write a list of good paternal attributes. But we all know what those are: love, attention, discipline, blah blah blah. Instead I’ve made a list I think I’ll call Stuff About Dads, compiled with enthusiastic nods to my father and my husband, the two best men that I know. I love you both to the moon despite the fact that you occasionally gang up against me.
Dad once gave me his fishing rod after hooking a blue marlin and let me reel it in.
Husband knows exactly what to say to calm down the children after I’ve threatened to pull the legs off their favorite stuffed animals.
Husband doesn’t get the least bit jealous when the Pterodactyl gives me open-mouthed kisses.
When I first became a journalist, my dad thought I was so good that he suggested I not put my name on my stories in case some people were offended by them.
Husband thinks daughter is so beautiful that he sort of hopes she’s gay so he won’t have to deal with boy issues.
When I was 12, Dad made his secretary type all of my poems and he published them in a little booklet called “Tricia’s Treasures.”
Husband hardly minds at all when the Pterodactyl wears pink nail polish and lip gloss.
Husband defends Pterodactyl admirably when I complain that all the bathrooms smell like pee.
Husband is self-appointed Arbiter of Homework, which is fortunate as I have so far declined to participate in nearly all school activities.
Dad has pushed the Prom Dress incident (see Prom In New Orleans blog entry) to the farthest recesses of his brain.
Dad bought me a pony when I was 8, and for years let me think that I paid for it with the $20 I had saved in my piggy bank.
Husband has nearly consented to let the Diva pierce her ears and has patiently taught the Tyrant to watch baseball with him.
Most of all, they rock because they think I rock, and on my worst days, believe me, that’s a lie they tell themselves.
So Happy Father’s Day to my dad and my husband, and to all the dads out there, and to all the moms who have to be dads, too. Hope your day is filled with homemade neckties, colorful cards and the beverage of your choice.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Talk to me, baby.
Forgive my lackluster computer skills. You shouldn't have any more trouble leaving comments after the posts. Sorry about that, girls and boys. I know how y'all like to gab. xo tricia
Call me when there's blood
When I was in kindergarten my parents had a strict rule against riding bikes in the street. One day, while Mom was shopping and my sisters and I were with a babysitter, I broke the rules and was hit by a car. (I learned my lesson, though.)
Soon after that, I peed on top of a yellow jacket nest, which is not something I recommend. I suffered a few dozen stings in some delicate areas and a trip to a country hospital.
What I remember most about both events is the utter lack of drama that followed. Of course there was some immediate panic regarding my safety, but once my parents confirmed that I’d be fine, it was pretty much over. The night of the yellow jacket assault, in fact, my parents went square dancing. They did at least let me lay in their bed and Dad bought me my favorite candy (Cracker Jacks) and a new album (Uncle Remus).
But by this time, my parents had four girls ages 7 (that was me), 5, 4 and an infant. I guess they needed to get away, even if getting away involved wearing a string tie and a puffy crinoline skirt.
When I think about it, I’m surprised Mom left us with some of these babysitters, particularly the one who let me get hit by a car. And then there was Mrs. Parrera, who made us take baths with our underpants on and wouldn’t let us eat food in the house.
Even when my sister broke her leg, there wasn’t much to it. In fact, my parents didn’t believe it was broken for two days and my dad actually made her walk on it. In all fairness, my parents probably took their cue from the medical community. There’s an oft-told story in our family regarding my little sister eating dog crap, and the pediatrician telling my mother to call him when my sister starting barking.
My point. I need to make it before I start churning up some indignation on behalf of my childhood. My point is this: As your children multiply and begin to take over the house, your panic meter adjusts. You learn to distinguish between life-threatening (viral pneumonia, staph infection, near-drowning) and Another Incident That Will Complicate My Life (ear infections, splinters, febrile seizures). Occasionally the two categories will overlap, such as when the Diva got a splinter in her big toe that turned into a staph infection, but in general, it’s an easy line to draw.
Conflict can ensue, however, because not everyone shares the same standards. For example, at my gym, there’s a rule in the KidZone regarding colorful snot. A child with colorful snot is not allowed to stay in the kids’ room. The snot has to be clear. Now, in my opinion, all snot has some color to it, whether it’s snot from a terrible cold or from a little sniffing pepper incident. (Look, he’s never going to learn if he doesn’t try it.)
I will admit to occasionally giving my child Dimetapp so that the Snot Police in the KidZone don’t ruin my workout. On the flip side, I’ve never brought a child to the KidZone with a fever, at least not knowingly.
It’s also difficult to regulate children with different pain thresholds. The Diva visits the school nurse any time her eye itches. The Tyrant can go uncomplaining for days with an ear infection so severe that gross stuff is leeching out of her ear canal. The Pterodactyl doesn’t care about the pain so much as the injustice that may have inflicted the pain.
So around here we have a saying: If you’re breathing and not bleeding, you’ll be fine. Occasionally, we have to adapt that, as the children occasionally bleed. But SpongeBob Squarepants bandages clot the blood nicely.
Of course, if anything serious ever happens to one of my children, I will spend the trip to the hospital ripping out my hair and flogging myself. But my husband will be there beside me, saying, “You’re breathing and not bleeding. You’ll be fine.”
Soon after that, I peed on top of a yellow jacket nest, which is not something I recommend. I suffered a few dozen stings in some delicate areas and a trip to a country hospital.
What I remember most about both events is the utter lack of drama that followed. Of course there was some immediate panic regarding my safety, but once my parents confirmed that I’d be fine, it was pretty much over. The night of the yellow jacket assault, in fact, my parents went square dancing. They did at least let me lay in their bed and Dad bought me my favorite candy (Cracker Jacks) and a new album (Uncle Remus).
But by this time, my parents had four girls ages 7 (that was me), 5, 4 and an infant. I guess they needed to get away, even if getting away involved wearing a string tie and a puffy crinoline skirt.
When I think about it, I’m surprised Mom left us with some of these babysitters, particularly the one who let me get hit by a car. And then there was Mrs. Parrera, who made us take baths with our underpants on and wouldn’t let us eat food in the house.
Even when my sister broke her leg, there wasn’t much to it. In fact, my parents didn’t believe it was broken for two days and my dad actually made her walk on it. In all fairness, my parents probably took their cue from the medical community. There’s an oft-told story in our family regarding my little sister eating dog crap, and the pediatrician telling my mother to call him when my sister starting barking.
My point. I need to make it before I start churning up some indignation on behalf of my childhood. My point is this: As your children multiply and begin to take over the house, your panic meter adjusts. You learn to distinguish between life-threatening (viral pneumonia, staph infection, near-drowning) and Another Incident That Will Complicate My Life (ear infections, splinters, febrile seizures). Occasionally the two categories will overlap, such as when the Diva got a splinter in her big toe that turned into a staph infection, but in general, it’s an easy line to draw.
Conflict can ensue, however, because not everyone shares the same standards. For example, at my gym, there’s a rule in the KidZone regarding colorful snot. A child with colorful snot is not allowed to stay in the kids’ room. The snot has to be clear. Now, in my opinion, all snot has some color to it, whether it’s snot from a terrible cold or from a little sniffing pepper incident. (Look, he’s never going to learn if he doesn’t try it.)
I will admit to occasionally giving my child Dimetapp so that the Snot Police in the KidZone don’t ruin my workout. On the flip side, I’ve never brought a child to the KidZone with a fever, at least not knowingly.
It’s also difficult to regulate children with different pain thresholds. The Diva visits the school nurse any time her eye itches. The Tyrant can go uncomplaining for days with an ear infection so severe that gross stuff is leeching out of her ear canal. The Pterodactyl doesn’t care about the pain so much as the injustice that may have inflicted the pain.
So around here we have a saying: If you’re breathing and not bleeding, you’ll be fine. Occasionally, we have to adapt that, as the children occasionally bleed. But SpongeBob Squarepants bandages clot the blood nicely.
Of course, if anything serious ever happens to one of my children, I will spend the trip to the hospital ripping out my hair and flogging myself. But my husband will be there beside me, saying, “You’re breathing and not bleeding. You’ll be fine.”
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
E. Coli? Sharp scissors? Pshaw!
When I tell people I have three kids -- or when they spot me at the pool simultaneously trying to pull my bathing suit top back on, wiping baby snot on the tiles and jerking the Tyrant’s head out of the water -- they inevitably comment that I must be very busy.
But “busy” is not the word I would use. It’s more like treading water -- I’m not doing anything other than flapping my arms and breathing. It’s exhausting, but not particularly productive, like an adaptation of the old “one step forward, two steps back” cliche. For example, just yesterday I saved $50 by taking the Diva to the library instead of the bookstore for books. But before we could check anything out, I had to pay $48.40 in late book fines.
The day before, after making the grand announcement that the Tyrant was potty-trained, she drank too much pool water and delivered a gross liquid-y poop that left gloopy brown puddles on the pool deck. (Hello, communitywide E. coli outbreak!)
Bringing my second child (the Pterodactyl) home -- going from one child to two -- was an adjustment, but it was manageable. The Tyrant was a game-changer. I distinctly remember one night after the Tyrant came home, after all three children were finally asleep, that Husband and I leaned against the kitchen counter and stared at each other.
“We ruined everyone’s lives,” I whispered.
I was so frazzled by the onslaught of chaos that I once let the Pterodactyl go for a playdate with the son of a woman I barely knew from the gym. I didn’t even know her last name. In my defense, she seemed very nice.
Anyway, the chaos didn’t die down so much as become tolerable and predictable. I now know from experience that I do indeed have time to run to the bathroom and wipe someone’s bottom before it’s time to flip the egg. In the time it takes to watch one episode of “SpongeBob Squarepants” I can put in a load of laundry, cook some noodles, take the dog out and post a status report on Facebook. Hey, a gal’s gotta have a social life.
And my standards changed. I used to interview babysitters with KGB-like acumen: References? CPR certification? Driving record? It’s a little different now. As long as they haven’t been convicted of anything, who am I to judge?
I once kept vigilant track of what my kids ate to ensure the ingestion of all necessary vitamins and minerals. Now I just want to make sure they eat enough that they don’t turn into cranky, wild-eyed maniacs. The Diva has eaten canned spaghetti for the past three days running, and I’ll be honest with you, I just feel grateful that the Campbell’s people were thoughtful enough to put extra calcium in each serving.
I also don’t freak out nearly as much as I used to. When the Pterodactyl pushed a little girl down the slide his first year of preschool and she broke her arm (I’m pretty sure she had weak bones to begin with), I went overboard with apologies. I wrote a letter to the mother, bought the girl a gift, and cried in the principal’s office. Yesterday when he packed a pair of kitchen shears for summer camp, I just told him Ms. Stacy wouldn’t like it.
So now it’s summer. I tread water daily -- both figuratively and literally -- and my arms have gotten stronger because of it. I can balance a glass of wine in one hand and a dog leash in the other, while counting the number of times the Diva jumps rope and scream at the Pterodactyl to pee in our bushes, not the neighbor’s. And you know what? Sometimes I even enjoy it.
But “busy” is not the word I would use. It’s more like treading water -- I’m not doing anything other than flapping my arms and breathing. It’s exhausting, but not particularly productive, like an adaptation of the old “one step forward, two steps back” cliche. For example, just yesterday I saved $50 by taking the Diva to the library instead of the bookstore for books. But before we could check anything out, I had to pay $48.40 in late book fines.
The day before, after making the grand announcement that the Tyrant was potty-trained, she drank too much pool water and delivered a gross liquid-y poop that left gloopy brown puddles on the pool deck. (Hello, communitywide E. coli outbreak!)
Bringing my second child (the Pterodactyl) home -- going from one child to two -- was an adjustment, but it was manageable. The Tyrant was a game-changer. I distinctly remember one night after the Tyrant came home, after all three children were finally asleep, that Husband and I leaned against the kitchen counter and stared at each other.
“We ruined everyone’s lives,” I whispered.
I was so frazzled by the onslaught of chaos that I once let the Pterodactyl go for a playdate with the son of a woman I barely knew from the gym. I didn’t even know her last name. In my defense, she seemed very nice.
Anyway, the chaos didn’t die down so much as become tolerable and predictable. I now know from experience that I do indeed have time to run to the bathroom and wipe someone’s bottom before it’s time to flip the egg. In the time it takes to watch one episode of “SpongeBob Squarepants” I can put in a load of laundry, cook some noodles, take the dog out and post a status report on Facebook. Hey, a gal’s gotta have a social life.
And my standards changed. I used to interview babysitters with KGB-like acumen: References? CPR certification? Driving record? It’s a little different now. As long as they haven’t been convicted of anything, who am I to judge?
I once kept vigilant track of what my kids ate to ensure the ingestion of all necessary vitamins and minerals. Now I just want to make sure they eat enough that they don’t turn into cranky, wild-eyed maniacs. The Diva has eaten canned spaghetti for the past three days running, and I’ll be honest with you, I just feel grateful that the Campbell’s people were thoughtful enough to put extra calcium in each serving.
I also don’t freak out nearly as much as I used to. When the Pterodactyl pushed a little girl down the slide his first year of preschool and she broke her arm (I’m pretty sure she had weak bones to begin with), I went overboard with apologies. I wrote a letter to the mother, bought the girl a gift, and cried in the principal’s office. Yesterday when he packed a pair of kitchen shears for summer camp, I just told him Ms. Stacy wouldn’t like it.
So now it’s summer. I tread water daily -- both figuratively and literally -- and my arms have gotten stronger because of it. I can balance a glass of wine in one hand and a dog leash in the other, while counting the number of times the Diva jumps rope and scream at the Pterodactyl to pee in our bushes, not the neighbor’s. And you know what? Sometimes I even enjoy it.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Are You There, God?
Are you there, God? It’s me, Tricia. I’m flying down the road right now and I could really use some of that patience that you and Job have made into some sort of virtue. The Pterodactyl has unbuckled his seat belt in order to grab the Tyrant’s lunch box, and there’s no place for me to pull over, and I just uttered the words, “Son! If I get into an accident I’m going to be very upset with you!”
I realize you have no incentive for listening to me other than the generic promise of salvation. I have not been very attentive due to my experimentation with atheism, and I’m sure that if you do exist, you’re still offended by the Diva asking why there’s a “t” on top of every church. We are gradually working religion into our home-based curriculum, but she gets a little freaked out by the crucifixion so we’re taking it slow. Also, please don’t be mad about the Tyrant singing the blessing song while she sits on the potty. She’s only two, and it really is a catchy tune.
As you know, I have referred to myself as a recovering Catholic, which accurately describes my efforts to forget Mrs. Killeen the religion teacher telling me in 8th grade that she had four breasts.
But I’m also disillusioned with some of those weirdo philosophies. I’m glad you convinced His Holiness that babies who die without being baptized don’t have to hang out forever in limbo, but seriously, it took you long enough. I mean, my children haven’t been baptized - at least to my knowledge. I have a lingering suspicion that my father might have poured some water over each of their little foreheads and made the sign of the cross, which counts if a believer thinks another soul is in danger of eternal damnation.
At any rate, my children certainly haven’t done anything to warrant eternal damnation or being suspended in limbo, though at the moment I’m willing to have them suspended anywhere as long as it’s soundproof.
Which brings me back to the children and my request for patience. I’ve noticed that the Diva and the Pterodactyl, now 7 and 4, are at the age when it would be super-convenient to use you to explain a few things.
Like death, for example. Their grandfather died recently, and they want to know he’s in heaven. I’d like to have your permission, despite my doubt that heaven exists, to confirm that yes, Papa is in heaven, along with Boston the dog and the frog Daddy accidentally squished in driveway. The Diva wants to know how Papa’s bones and blood got up to heaven, and I told her that you’re magic, a little like Santa Claus, and can invisibly lift bodies up through the skies. I’m sorry, but I could not bring myself to tell her that Papa had been incinerated, his ashes put into a box and the box left overnight in the trunk of my sister-in-law’s car.
God, I tell them, is also the reason that people eat chicken, that animals in the wild kill each other and that thunder is noisy. (Their dad tells them the scientific explanation for thunder, but I can never remember it.)
I appreciate your understanding in this matter. In return, I will open my heart to any patience you want to send my way, and I promise to make Husband stop referring to surfing as a religion.
Please give our love to Papa, my grandparents, and Aunt Beulah, who are near to you if you are there. And give my best to Uncle Tony, though you’ll probably have to send him a message as I think he settled a little further south.
I realize you have no incentive for listening to me other than the generic promise of salvation. I have not been very attentive due to my experimentation with atheism, and I’m sure that if you do exist, you’re still offended by the Diva asking why there’s a “t” on top of every church. We are gradually working religion into our home-based curriculum, but she gets a little freaked out by the crucifixion so we’re taking it slow. Also, please don’t be mad about the Tyrant singing the blessing song while she sits on the potty. She’s only two, and it really is a catchy tune.
As you know, I have referred to myself as a recovering Catholic, which accurately describes my efforts to forget Mrs. Killeen the religion teacher telling me in 8th grade that she had four breasts.
But I’m also disillusioned with some of those weirdo philosophies. I’m glad you convinced His Holiness that babies who die without being baptized don’t have to hang out forever in limbo, but seriously, it took you long enough. I mean, my children haven’t been baptized - at least to my knowledge. I have a lingering suspicion that my father might have poured some water over each of their little foreheads and made the sign of the cross, which counts if a believer thinks another soul is in danger of eternal damnation.
At any rate, my children certainly haven’t done anything to warrant eternal damnation or being suspended in limbo, though at the moment I’m willing to have them suspended anywhere as long as it’s soundproof.
Which brings me back to the children and my request for patience. I’ve noticed that the Diva and the Pterodactyl, now 7 and 4, are at the age when it would be super-convenient to use you to explain a few things.
Like death, for example. Their grandfather died recently, and they want to know he’s in heaven. I’d like to have your permission, despite my doubt that heaven exists, to confirm that yes, Papa is in heaven, along with Boston the dog and the frog Daddy accidentally squished in driveway. The Diva wants to know how Papa’s bones and blood got up to heaven, and I told her that you’re magic, a little like Santa Claus, and can invisibly lift bodies up through the skies. I’m sorry, but I could not bring myself to tell her that Papa had been incinerated, his ashes put into a box and the box left overnight in the trunk of my sister-in-law’s car.
God, I tell them, is also the reason that people eat chicken, that animals in the wild kill each other and that thunder is noisy. (Their dad tells them the scientific explanation for thunder, but I can never remember it.)
I appreciate your understanding in this matter. In return, I will open my heart to any patience you want to send my way, and I promise to make Husband stop referring to surfing as a religion.
Please give our love to Papa, my grandparents, and Aunt Beulah, who are near to you if you are there. And give my best to Uncle Tony, though you’ll probably have to send him a message as I think he settled a little further south.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Too Many Cheez-Its, Not Enough Wine. Or Vice Versa.
I like wine. But I can’t drink as much as I used to for a number of reasons. First, my middle-aged metabolism has changed and I seem to get tipsy...okay, drunk...a little more quickly now. I think I used to be cute in a flirty, happy way when I was tipsy/drunk. Now that I have some wrinkles, I’m pretty sure I’m a lush.
The more important reason I can’t drink as much is because I always need to be able to drive my children to the hospital in case of an emergency. This philosophy was confirmed the day after Christmas when my 2-year-old daughter, the Tyrant, leaped into my lap, flipped over backwards, knocked over my wine glass, fell on it, and stabbed herself in the chest. In that instance, fortunately, my husband the paramedic decided to mend the wound with a Steri-Strip. It only left a small scar.
The incident taught me a lesson. And now I have yet another reason to avoid excessive drinking. Suppose I happily sipped a glass or three of wine with a girlfriend while a babysitter minded the kids, then came home to find a house with no electricity and the Tyrant unwilling to sleep without her noise machine?
This is exactly what happened last week. The power went out for no discernible reason at 9 pm and did not come back on until 5 am. Around midnight, there was a convergence of notable events: my pleasant buzz was wearing off, the headache was settling in, and the house was getting warm due to lack of air conditioning. It was very very dark. And the Tyrant woke up.
Husband was home but due at work the next day. It clearly fell under my job description to see the baby through the night.
I tried everything. I put her in bed with me; she wouldn’t stop whispering in Husband’s ear. I rubbed her back; she kicked me. I gave her a sippy cup with milk; she drank it and threw it across the room.
Finally I resorted to bribing her. “If you stay in your bed, I’ll give you Gummi Bears,” I told her. I offered up a handful.
“No want it,” she said. “Wanna watch teebee.” Which I totally would have let her do if THE FUCKING ELECTRICITY HAD NOT BEEN OUT.
So there I was at 3 am, rocking the baby in a hot dark room, sucking on Gummi Bears and listening to the pounding in my head.
Eating the Gummi Bears started me thinking about all the crazy stuff I buy now that I have kids. Cheez-Its, I think, are the worst. I hate Cheez-Its. I have never liked Cheez-Its. I have never liked the way they smell. And don’t get me started on the ones shaped like SpongeBob Squarepants. Just plain weird.
Yet I find myself gulping down handfuls of Cheez-Its all the time. I swear it’s what keeps me from achieving bodily perfection. Cheez-Its have some sort of magnetic attraction to my hand, which flings itself to my mouth like an automated crane arm. One minute I’m in the gym doing bench squats with a 30-lb. weight in each hand, and the next minute I’m flying down the road in my gold Toyota minivan, humming along to the chicken dance song and shoving Cheez-Its in my mouth.
I know not everyone feeds their kids like I do. I was teasing my cousin Kay one time, and told her, “I bet you never let your kid eat Goldfish off the floor,” and she said, “Um, I’m not sure he’s ever had Goldfish,” and right away I could see we were very different.
If it didn’t promote harmony in my house, I certainly wouldn’t buy Cheez-Its. Nor would I buy Easy Mac, Fruit Roll-ups, Campbell’s Mega Noodle Chicken Noodle Soup, Gummi Bears or mini-marshmallows (the Diva puts them on toast).
I’d most definitely still buy wine, of course. And to be honest, knowing what I know now, I might still buy Gummi Bears because they did manage to eliminate the rancid taste in my mouth during the Night of the Power Outage -- so much so that when the Tyrant quit singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Pee Pee (her brother taught her that version) and asked for some Gummi Bears, I had bad news.
“I ate them all,” I said. And then the power came back on.
The more important reason I can’t drink as much is because I always need to be able to drive my children to the hospital in case of an emergency. This philosophy was confirmed the day after Christmas when my 2-year-old daughter, the Tyrant, leaped into my lap, flipped over backwards, knocked over my wine glass, fell on it, and stabbed herself in the chest. In that instance, fortunately, my husband the paramedic decided to mend the wound with a Steri-Strip. It only left a small scar.
The incident taught me a lesson. And now I have yet another reason to avoid excessive drinking. Suppose I happily sipped a glass or three of wine with a girlfriend while a babysitter minded the kids, then came home to find a house with no electricity and the Tyrant unwilling to sleep without her noise machine?
This is exactly what happened last week. The power went out for no discernible reason at 9 pm and did not come back on until 5 am. Around midnight, there was a convergence of notable events: my pleasant buzz was wearing off, the headache was settling in, and the house was getting warm due to lack of air conditioning. It was very very dark. And the Tyrant woke up.
Husband was home but due at work the next day. It clearly fell under my job description to see the baby through the night.
I tried everything. I put her in bed with me; she wouldn’t stop whispering in Husband’s ear. I rubbed her back; she kicked me. I gave her a sippy cup with milk; she drank it and threw it across the room.
Finally I resorted to bribing her. “If you stay in your bed, I’ll give you Gummi Bears,” I told her. I offered up a handful.
“No want it,” she said. “Wanna watch teebee.” Which I totally would have let her do if THE FUCKING ELECTRICITY HAD NOT BEEN OUT.
So there I was at 3 am, rocking the baby in a hot dark room, sucking on Gummi Bears and listening to the pounding in my head.
Eating the Gummi Bears started me thinking about all the crazy stuff I buy now that I have kids. Cheez-Its, I think, are the worst. I hate Cheez-Its. I have never liked Cheez-Its. I have never liked the way they smell. And don’t get me started on the ones shaped like SpongeBob Squarepants. Just plain weird.
Yet I find myself gulping down handfuls of Cheez-Its all the time. I swear it’s what keeps me from achieving bodily perfection. Cheez-Its have some sort of magnetic attraction to my hand, which flings itself to my mouth like an automated crane arm. One minute I’m in the gym doing bench squats with a 30-lb. weight in each hand, and the next minute I’m flying down the road in my gold Toyota minivan, humming along to the chicken dance song and shoving Cheez-Its in my mouth.
I know not everyone feeds their kids like I do. I was teasing my cousin Kay one time, and told her, “I bet you never let your kid eat Goldfish off the floor,” and she said, “Um, I’m not sure he’s ever had Goldfish,” and right away I could see we were very different.
If it didn’t promote harmony in my house, I certainly wouldn’t buy Cheez-Its. Nor would I buy Easy Mac, Fruit Roll-ups, Campbell’s Mega Noodle Chicken Noodle Soup, Gummi Bears or mini-marshmallows (the Diva puts them on toast).
I’d most definitely still buy wine, of course. And to be honest, knowing what I know now, I might still buy Gummi Bears because they did manage to eliminate the rancid taste in my mouth during the Night of the Power Outage -- so much so that when the Tyrant quit singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Pee Pee (her brother taught her that version) and asked for some Gummi Bears, I had bad news.
“I ate them all,” I said. And then the power came back on.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Again with the things we say...
Top 10 things that have been said in my house over the past 24 hours:
10. Don’t put Teddy in the toilet plunger holder! That’s gross!
9. Okay! I’ll get the lizard out of the toilet. Just don’t pee yet.
8. You have to wear pants if you want to play in the fort.
7. Please don’t wear your brown velour dress today.
6. If the power doesn’t come back on, I guess I’ll just go sleep at work.
5. If you stay in your bed, I’ll give you Gummi Bears.
4. I didn’t hurt the lizard. It’s fine.
3. Why does your hair smell like throw-up?
2. How many glasses did you have?
1. No. I ate them all.
10. Don’t put Teddy in the toilet plunger holder! That’s gross!
9. Okay! I’ll get the lizard out of the toilet. Just don’t pee yet.
8. You have to wear pants if you want to play in the fort.
7. Please don’t wear your brown velour dress today.
6. If the power doesn’t come back on, I guess I’ll just go sleep at work.
5. If you stay in your bed, I’ll give you Gummi Bears.
4. I didn’t hurt the lizard. It’s fine.
3. Why does your hair smell like throw-up?
2. How many glasses did you have?
1. No. I ate them all.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
A Correction Regarding the Enema
My mother called me regarding the prom story (see Prom In New Orleans, 6/8 entry) to voice an objection.
She has never given me an enema, she insisted.
But I had quite a vivid memory of it. We were at my grandmother’s house, and I was begging her to take me to the hospital, and she refused because she said if you go to the hospital with constipation all they’re going to do is give you an enema, so she might as well just give me the damn enema and save us all the time and the money. She probably didn’t say damn; that’s me.
She was adamant, however, that it had not happened, and this is how she knew: Her mother-in-law -- my other grandmother -- apparently had been really big on enemas for her six children, using it to solve any ailment from nausea to a disagreeable nature, which believe me was probably quite common in that house. This makes sense to me because my father finds discussion of anything that occurs in the bathroom to be just short of criminal behavior. Anyway, my mother said that knowing how “WaWas” (yes, that’s what we called my grandmother, no time for that right now) traumatized her children by giving them not infrequent enemas, she had sworn to never give any of her children enemas, ever, much less when they were 17 years old.
I felt equally adamant about my memory, but her logic was more compelling, so I thought about this for a long time.
And then I had a more accurate recollection. My mom actually administered a suppository, not an enema, to cure me of the constipation resulting from the liquid diet I was on following the wisdom teeth surgery which I had three days after my prom.
I stand corrected. Thanks, Mom, for your elephant’s memory. And for, you know, the suppository. I’m sure that it was better than an enema.
She has never given me an enema, she insisted.
But I had quite a vivid memory of it. We were at my grandmother’s house, and I was begging her to take me to the hospital, and she refused because she said if you go to the hospital with constipation all they’re going to do is give you an enema, so she might as well just give me the damn enema and save us all the time and the money. She probably didn’t say damn; that’s me.
She was adamant, however, that it had not happened, and this is how she knew: Her mother-in-law -- my other grandmother -- apparently had been really big on enemas for her six children, using it to solve any ailment from nausea to a disagreeable nature, which believe me was probably quite common in that house. This makes sense to me because my father finds discussion of anything that occurs in the bathroom to be just short of criminal behavior. Anyway, my mother said that knowing how “WaWas” (yes, that’s what we called my grandmother, no time for that right now) traumatized her children by giving them not infrequent enemas, she had sworn to never give any of her children enemas, ever, much less when they were 17 years old.
I felt equally adamant about my memory, but her logic was more compelling, so I thought about this for a long time.
And then I had a more accurate recollection. My mom actually administered a suppository, not an enema, to cure me of the constipation resulting from the liquid diet I was on following the wisdom teeth surgery which I had three days after my prom.
I stand corrected. Thanks, Mom, for your elephant’s memory. And for, you know, the suppository. I’m sure that it was better than an enema.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
You (Didn't) Say What?
I just screamed the following at my kids: “WHAT DID I JUST SAY? SPEAK NICELY TO EACH OTHER!” But they evidently did not like my tone because the Tyrant pointed her finger at me and said, “No! Stop it! Don’t do dat, Mom!” and the Pterodactyl did his eye-blinking thing which means he’s about to cry.
When kids become old enough to theoretically listen to their parents, most parents find themselves saying all kinds of things they swore they’d never say. I’m not one of those parents, as I did not make any promises regarding what type of parent I’d be. But I do find myself saying lots of things I never thought I’d have to say.
For example, yesterday while swimming, I had to repeatedly tell my 4-year-old son (the Pterodactyl) to stop grabbing my breast, sticking his finger in my ear and trying to pull off my bathing suit top. And then when in the bathroom, the Tyrant (she’s 2) had to be (forcefully) told not to put her head into the toilet to see her brother’s poop. I didn’t really care about her seeing her brother’s poop, but the Pterodactyl gets really freaked out about anyone other than me looking at his poop, and even me seeing it has a rigid routine. I have to tell him not to worry, he can try again later, then act all surprised when I see that he has in fact produced.
Of course, children say all sorts of unexpected things, too. The Pterodactyl just this minute walked up to me and said, “You may not put fire on a rose.” Awww, you’re thinking. How sweet. Please note that last week he said, in reference to his little sister, “I told you we shouldn’t of buyed another baby.”
And right now he’s telling the baby she has poopy ears, and she’s holding her ears and crying. And so I find myself yelling, “HEY! ENOUGH WITH THE POOPY EARS TALK!”
So on it goes. I’ve told my son that we do not flush our nightlights down the toilet, that pretending to pee on people is rude, and that it is absolutely not okay to put your sister in a gym locker and leave her there. I have instructed the Diva that she may never again use Sharpies as face paint, that stubbing her toe does not require wrapping her entire foot in a roll of toilet paper, that being 7 years old does not mean you can give yourself medicine, and that pretending to brush your teeth is not at all the same as really brushing them, a fact that seemed to surprise her. I have repeatedly instructed the Tyrant that she may not: eat dog food, wash her hair with body lotion, paint her sheets with lip gloss or slap my face in public. Unfortunately she seems to not understand basic English.
I see all this, however, as a positive form of communication since there are so many things that I don’t say to my kids. I’m currently seeing a shrink to help me parent my son, and I’m also seeing a different shrink to help me deal with the fact that I need a shrink to deal with my son. The first shrink told me to figure out my “moment,” the signal to myself that I need to take a few deep breaths and regroup. For her, she said by way of example, she can feel her heart rate speeding up.
I knew exactly what she meant. For me, it’s when that little voice inside my head starts saying, “Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up.” It honestly happens just about every day. But so far, I’ve never said that aloud. Well, that’s not true. But I’ve never said it aloud to my kids and I’m rightly proud of that.
When kids become old enough to theoretically listen to their parents, most parents find themselves saying all kinds of things they swore they’d never say. I’m not one of those parents, as I did not make any promises regarding what type of parent I’d be. But I do find myself saying lots of things I never thought I’d have to say.
For example, yesterday while swimming, I had to repeatedly tell my 4-year-old son (the Pterodactyl) to stop grabbing my breast, sticking his finger in my ear and trying to pull off my bathing suit top. And then when in the bathroom, the Tyrant (she’s 2) had to be (forcefully) told not to put her head into the toilet to see her brother’s poop. I didn’t really care about her seeing her brother’s poop, but the Pterodactyl gets really freaked out about anyone other than me looking at his poop, and even me seeing it has a rigid routine. I have to tell him not to worry, he can try again later, then act all surprised when I see that he has in fact produced.
Of course, children say all sorts of unexpected things, too. The Pterodactyl just this minute walked up to me and said, “You may not put fire on a rose.” Awww, you’re thinking. How sweet. Please note that last week he said, in reference to his little sister, “I told you we shouldn’t of buyed another baby.”
And right now he’s telling the baby she has poopy ears, and she’s holding her ears and crying. And so I find myself yelling, “HEY! ENOUGH WITH THE POOPY EARS TALK!”
So on it goes. I’ve told my son that we do not flush our nightlights down the toilet, that pretending to pee on people is rude, and that it is absolutely not okay to put your sister in a gym locker and leave her there. I have instructed the Diva that she may never again use Sharpies as face paint, that stubbing her toe does not require wrapping her entire foot in a roll of toilet paper, that being 7 years old does not mean you can give yourself medicine, and that pretending to brush your teeth is not at all the same as really brushing them, a fact that seemed to surprise her. I have repeatedly instructed the Tyrant that she may not: eat dog food, wash her hair with body lotion, paint her sheets with lip gloss or slap my face in public. Unfortunately she seems to not understand basic English.
I see all this, however, as a positive form of communication since there are so many things that I don’t say to my kids. I’m currently seeing a shrink to help me parent my son, and I’m also seeing a different shrink to help me deal with the fact that I need a shrink to deal with my son. The first shrink told me to figure out my “moment,” the signal to myself that I need to take a few deep breaths and regroup. For her, she said by way of example, she can feel her heart rate speeding up.
I knew exactly what she meant. For me, it’s when that little voice inside my head starts saying, “Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up.” It honestly happens just about every day. But so far, I’ve never said that aloud. Well, that’s not true. But I’ve never said it aloud to my kids and I’m rightly proud of that.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Prom in New Orleans, or How I Lost My Dress
Twenty-four years ago, I walked down the aisle in a long white dress.
It was my high school graduation, and that’s how the young Catholic ladies of the Academy of the Sacred Heart entered adulthood. On graduation night, which was followed by prom, we wore long white dresses that had been approved by the nuns in advance. I suppose it was to symbolize our virginity, though in all honesty a nice shade of beige might have been more appropriate.
We were thrilled to graduate, of course, but the real excitement was the partying that followed. It was 1981 in New Orleans; the drinking age was around 12 and we were issued mixed drink tickets when we arrived at the dance. The Neville Brothers played at our prom.
My junior year prom date had been a nice young man from a hard-working family. He was modestly handsome and quiet; a decent boy.
My senior year prom date? Not so much.
David had made the rounds dating the coolest, baddest girls in my class. He did drugs and had failed a grade. When everyone else got tired of him, he settled for me, and I was thrilled. What geeky redhead wouldn’t want to date a lazy drug-dealing stoner scheduled to drop out of high school? He used to sing REO Speedwagon to me: “You know, I know all about those men...” He thought I could attract other guys! That seemed SO romantic!
By prom time, David and I had just about run our course. There had been a few missed curfews, a couple of broken dates, and one incident which I’ve permanently erased from my memory.
But I had asked him to prom and, frankly, I didn’t have anyone waiting in the wings.
It’s a sad, sad fact of life that at the times when our parents should mean the most, we’re constantly peeking around the corner, looking for something we think will be better. That was me on graduation night. There were my parents and grandparents and sisters, craning their necks to see me, beaming not just with pride but with that deep, endless bittersweet love that comes with watching your child grow up. And there was me, also craning my neck, looking for my no-good dipshit date to show up.
I think I looked beautiful that night. My mother and I had picked out the design of my virginal dress, and it was tailor-made. It cost $500. I will never forget that. I loved it. I told her I would get married in that dress.
David was late and he missed me receiving my diploma. And then after the ceremony, he said he had to give some people a ride to the prom and would meet me there. I found that very unusual, but I rode with some girlfriends and it was fine.
I was well into my second rum and Diet Coke by the time he arrived at the prom. It had taken him over an hour to get there. His eyes were very red and sleepy-looking. But he was NOT stoned, he said. It had taken so long because they had a flat tire on the way, and when they stopped to fix it, they couldn’t find the jack, but then someone stopped to help them, and he’s really sorry but it wasn’t his fault that he had a flat tire and blah, blah, fucking blah.
Whatever. I got over it and we all got drunk and had a blast.
Then it was time for the after-party.
David was driving his grandmother’s car, and we were double-dating with Leesa and her boyfriend, Doan. Now Leesa was just about the prettiest girl in the school but she was a couple of highlights short of a dye job, if you know what I mean. She always got the hottest guys, but they weren’t dating her for the conversation.
So it was kind of exciting when we decided to change clothes in the back seat on the way to the party. David and Doan were in front pretending not to look, and Leesa and I were shimmying out of our dresses and into shorts and shirts. I’m not sure why we were doing this. But the combination of David not watching the road and him being drunk and stoned led to him running off the road and hitting a light post.
It was a little bit of a buzz kill. Fortunately, it happened right in front of a Denny’s and we were all a little bit hungry. So we extracted the car -- bummer about the dents, but it still ran fine -- and parked, and ran in for some breakfast.
Eggs and bacon sobered us up enough to go to the after-party. We stayed for a while, and then arranged with some friends to meet up at Fat Harry’s, by far our favorite Uptown bar.
I know it seems unusual for high school girls to have a favorite bar, but again, this was New Orleans. We had been going to Fat Harry’s since we were 15 years old. It was where I first learned that rum didn’t contain any carbohydrates, and that sometimes throwing up after drinking too much can make you feel better.
When we got into the car, I realized that the paper bag holding my beautiful tailor-made virginal white dress was gone.
It wasn’t a very big back seat, but I crawled back and forth 20 times to make sure it wasn’t there. I looked in the trunk. I looked in the front. I looked in the glove compartment. I ran back into the party house and searched there, too. I looked under the car. I looked in the grass beside the car.
It was gone. A pit settled firmly into my belly. Guilt flushed me like a sunburn.
We discussed the matter at length. Obviously the dress had been stolen, either while we were having breakfast at Denny’s or while we were at the party. There was nothing left to do but go to Fat Harry’s.
At Fat Harry’s we ran into Russell, the security guard from our high school, just recently off duty from the graduation festivities. He began to buy us celebratory drinks, and pretty soon he became our very good friend. We also ran into Russell the ex-Fat Harry’s bartender, who I had been furtively dating since realizing the David thing wasn’t going to work out. He announced to me that he was moving to Colorado, and so I invited him to hang out with us for the rest of the night. David didn’t seem to care.
By this time it was getting close to 3 a.m., which was my curfew, but we weren’t ready to go home yet. We were hungry again. So I called my parents and told them we were going to breakfast and would be home after that. It was prom night, and they trusted me. They said okay.
So David, me, Russell and Russell, and Leesa and Doan went back to Denny’s for breakfast.
After breakfast we all noticed dawn was breaking, so we decided to go to a park to watch the sun rise over the Mississippi River.
The Butterfly was beautiful at that time of the morning. We ran around like the buzzed and worry-free high school graduates that we were. Well, actually, I ran around. Doan had passed out in the car, and Leesa and David “went for a walk.” I played tag with and then made out with Russell the bartender. I’m not sure what Russell the security guard was doing.
Around 8 a.m. we decided to call it a night. We piled back into David’s grandmother’s wrecked car and headed home. On the way, we passed David’s high school, and David suddenly remembered that he needed to pick up his transcripts so that he could apply someplace for summer school. I am not making this up.
So he parked. Leesa had (allegedly) cut herself while on her “long walk” with David, so she went with David to the front office to get a Band-Aid while he secured his transcripts.
Russell the bartender said goodbye and walked home.
I sat in the car with passed-out Doan and Russell the security guard.
We waited for an hour. I tried to find David and Leesa but couldn’t. I called my parents again. “Come home immediately,” my mother said. Then she hung up.
I called a cab. But I didn’t have any money. So Russell the security guard and I left Doan and hopped into the cab. He was the school security guard, after all. I think he felt obligated to escort me home.
I arrived home around 11 a.m. with no dress, no shoes, no money and no date. Russell paid my fare.
I was grounded for three days until I had surgery to have my wisdom teeth removed. I couldn’t eat solid food for days, and became constipated, and my mother had to give me an enema. I think she might have believed in karma at that moment.
“Youth is wasted on the young,” wrote George Bernard Shaw, and I couldn’t agree more.
If I had to do it again, I’d go to the prom without a date. I’d have my parents pick me up from the after-party. I’d invite my mom to have breakfast with me the next day. And while waiting for my mouth to heal from wisdom teeth surgery, I’d definitely hit the prune juice.
It was my high school graduation, and that’s how the young Catholic ladies of the Academy of the Sacred Heart entered adulthood. On graduation night, which was followed by prom, we wore long white dresses that had been approved by the nuns in advance. I suppose it was to symbolize our virginity, though in all honesty a nice shade of beige might have been more appropriate.
We were thrilled to graduate, of course, but the real excitement was the partying that followed. It was 1981 in New Orleans; the drinking age was around 12 and we were issued mixed drink tickets when we arrived at the dance. The Neville Brothers played at our prom.
My junior year prom date had been a nice young man from a hard-working family. He was modestly handsome and quiet; a decent boy.
My senior year prom date? Not so much.
David had made the rounds dating the coolest, baddest girls in my class. He did drugs and had failed a grade. When everyone else got tired of him, he settled for me, and I was thrilled. What geeky redhead wouldn’t want to date a lazy drug-dealing stoner scheduled to drop out of high school? He used to sing REO Speedwagon to me: “You know, I know all about those men...” He thought I could attract other guys! That seemed SO romantic!
By prom time, David and I had just about run our course. There had been a few missed curfews, a couple of broken dates, and one incident which I’ve permanently erased from my memory.
But I had asked him to prom and, frankly, I didn’t have anyone waiting in the wings.
It’s a sad, sad fact of life that at the times when our parents should mean the most, we’re constantly peeking around the corner, looking for something we think will be better. That was me on graduation night. There were my parents and grandparents and sisters, craning their necks to see me, beaming not just with pride but with that deep, endless bittersweet love that comes with watching your child grow up. And there was me, also craning my neck, looking for my no-good dipshit date to show up.
I think I looked beautiful that night. My mother and I had picked out the design of my virginal dress, and it was tailor-made. It cost $500. I will never forget that. I loved it. I told her I would get married in that dress.
David was late and he missed me receiving my diploma. And then after the ceremony, he said he had to give some people a ride to the prom and would meet me there. I found that very unusual, but I rode with some girlfriends and it was fine.
I was well into my second rum and Diet Coke by the time he arrived at the prom. It had taken him over an hour to get there. His eyes were very red and sleepy-looking. But he was NOT stoned, he said. It had taken so long because they had a flat tire on the way, and when they stopped to fix it, they couldn’t find the jack, but then someone stopped to help them, and he’s really sorry but it wasn’t his fault that he had a flat tire and blah, blah, fucking blah.
Whatever. I got over it and we all got drunk and had a blast.
Then it was time for the after-party.
David was driving his grandmother’s car, and we were double-dating with Leesa and her boyfriend, Doan. Now Leesa was just about the prettiest girl in the school but she was a couple of highlights short of a dye job, if you know what I mean. She always got the hottest guys, but they weren’t dating her for the conversation.
So it was kind of exciting when we decided to change clothes in the back seat on the way to the party. David and Doan were in front pretending not to look, and Leesa and I were shimmying out of our dresses and into shorts and shirts. I’m not sure why we were doing this. But the combination of David not watching the road and him being drunk and stoned led to him running off the road and hitting a light post.
It was a little bit of a buzz kill. Fortunately, it happened right in front of a Denny’s and we were all a little bit hungry. So we extracted the car -- bummer about the dents, but it still ran fine -- and parked, and ran in for some breakfast.
Eggs and bacon sobered us up enough to go to the after-party. We stayed for a while, and then arranged with some friends to meet up at Fat Harry’s, by far our favorite Uptown bar.
I know it seems unusual for high school girls to have a favorite bar, but again, this was New Orleans. We had been going to Fat Harry’s since we were 15 years old. It was where I first learned that rum didn’t contain any carbohydrates, and that sometimes throwing up after drinking too much can make you feel better.
When we got into the car, I realized that the paper bag holding my beautiful tailor-made virginal white dress was gone.
It wasn’t a very big back seat, but I crawled back and forth 20 times to make sure it wasn’t there. I looked in the trunk. I looked in the front. I looked in the glove compartment. I ran back into the party house and searched there, too. I looked under the car. I looked in the grass beside the car.
It was gone. A pit settled firmly into my belly. Guilt flushed me like a sunburn.
We discussed the matter at length. Obviously the dress had been stolen, either while we were having breakfast at Denny’s or while we were at the party. There was nothing left to do but go to Fat Harry’s.
At Fat Harry’s we ran into Russell, the security guard from our high school, just recently off duty from the graduation festivities. He began to buy us celebratory drinks, and pretty soon he became our very good friend. We also ran into Russell the ex-Fat Harry’s bartender, who I had been furtively dating since realizing the David thing wasn’t going to work out. He announced to me that he was moving to Colorado, and so I invited him to hang out with us for the rest of the night. David didn’t seem to care.
By this time it was getting close to 3 a.m., which was my curfew, but we weren’t ready to go home yet. We were hungry again. So I called my parents and told them we were going to breakfast and would be home after that. It was prom night, and they trusted me. They said okay.
So David, me, Russell and Russell, and Leesa and Doan went back to Denny’s for breakfast.
After breakfast we all noticed dawn was breaking, so we decided to go to a park to watch the sun rise over the Mississippi River.
The Butterfly was beautiful at that time of the morning. We ran around like the buzzed and worry-free high school graduates that we were. Well, actually, I ran around. Doan had passed out in the car, and Leesa and David “went for a walk.” I played tag with and then made out with Russell the bartender. I’m not sure what Russell the security guard was doing.
Around 8 a.m. we decided to call it a night. We piled back into David’s grandmother’s wrecked car and headed home. On the way, we passed David’s high school, and David suddenly remembered that he needed to pick up his transcripts so that he could apply someplace for summer school. I am not making this up.
So he parked. Leesa had (allegedly) cut herself while on her “long walk” with David, so she went with David to the front office to get a Band-Aid while he secured his transcripts.
Russell the bartender said goodbye and walked home.
I sat in the car with passed-out Doan and Russell the security guard.
We waited for an hour. I tried to find David and Leesa but couldn’t. I called my parents again. “Come home immediately,” my mother said. Then she hung up.
I called a cab. But I didn’t have any money. So Russell the security guard and I left Doan and hopped into the cab. He was the school security guard, after all. I think he felt obligated to escort me home.
I arrived home around 11 a.m. with no dress, no shoes, no money and no date. Russell paid my fare.
I was grounded for three days until I had surgery to have my wisdom teeth removed. I couldn’t eat solid food for days, and became constipated, and my mother had to give me an enema. I think she might have believed in karma at that moment.
“Youth is wasted on the young,” wrote George Bernard Shaw, and I couldn’t agree more.
If I had to do it again, I’d go to the prom without a date. I’d have my parents pick me up from the after-party. I’d invite my mom to have breakfast with me the next day. And while waiting for my mouth to heal from wisdom teeth surgery, I’d definitely hit the prune juice.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Gay marriage, kidneys and glitter
The Diva has four days left of first grade, and I must say she has learned a lot this year.
To begin, she knows every word to Katy Perry’s “I Kissed a Girl" (and I liked it) and can sing it without stage fright on almost any occasion. She also has learned what it means to be “Goth” (thank you, Adam Lambert), that leprechauns aren’t real, and that you should never wear a skirt on days when you have gym class.
Let’s face it: those are some of the most important things she’ll ever learn.
Oh, she has progressed in the usual subjects. Her reading has advanced enough that I have to block the pornographic emails from my friend, Joey, and her math is acceptable, though let’s just say she should feel grateful she has all 10 fingers to help her.
It’s been a steep learning curve for me, however. First, I never understood how involved I was supposed to be in my child’s education. I just assumed I’d send her off to school and the teachers would take care of everything, from teaching her how to tie her shoes to helping her fill out applications for college financial aid. I mean, I understood I might need to help her with homework now and again, but the first time she came home with an assignment involving pipe cleaners, I was shocked. I’m supposed to keep things like pipe cleaners hanging around the house? And glitter! Let me tell you -- if I kept glitter on hand, this house would look like a fairy princess house of horrors. Every surface would sparkle so brightly we’d all need sunglasses inside. Even the dog poop would be twinkly.
In honor of my darling daughter’s successful promotion to second grade, I’d like to highlight the key lessons we’ve managed to absorb this year.
1. When your teacher is throwing up in the classroom sink, it’s polite to hand her a paper towel.
2. Oreo cookies are not considered a healthy snack, despite the fact that a single serving contains 4 percent of the recommended daily allowance of fiber.
3. The meanest girls have blonde hair and are unbearably cute. Key word: unbearably.
4. Enlightening your first grade class about same sex marriage can be awkward for the teacher.
5. School officials think a tiny little case of conjunctivitis is grounds for a quarantine.
6. If you wear a Jonas Brothers t-shirt, boys will (accurately) accuse you of being in love with the Jonas Brothers.
7. Mrs. D had to go the hospital because she has a kidney!
8. Having a playdate with a friend who talks about kissing boys on the lips can send your mother spiraling into apoplexy.
9. It’s good to know how to walk home from the bus stop by yourself in case your parents can’t read the bus schedule and wait at the wrong place at the wrong time on the stormiest, coldest day of the year.
10. A Starburst left at the the bottom of your backpack for months on end can still pack the same flavor, but with a little extra fuzz.
We just hope that, despite all the cuts in public education, the next dozen years prove to be equally as productive.
To begin, she knows every word to Katy Perry’s “I Kissed a Girl" (and I liked it) and can sing it without stage fright on almost any occasion. She also has learned what it means to be “Goth” (thank you, Adam Lambert), that leprechauns aren’t real, and that you should never wear a skirt on days when you have gym class.
Let’s face it: those are some of the most important things she’ll ever learn.
Oh, she has progressed in the usual subjects. Her reading has advanced enough that I have to block the pornographic emails from my friend, Joey, and her math is acceptable, though let’s just say she should feel grateful she has all 10 fingers to help her.
It’s been a steep learning curve for me, however. First, I never understood how involved I was supposed to be in my child’s education. I just assumed I’d send her off to school and the teachers would take care of everything, from teaching her how to tie her shoes to helping her fill out applications for college financial aid. I mean, I understood I might need to help her with homework now and again, but the first time she came home with an assignment involving pipe cleaners, I was shocked. I’m supposed to keep things like pipe cleaners hanging around the house? And glitter! Let me tell you -- if I kept glitter on hand, this house would look like a fairy princess house of horrors. Every surface would sparkle so brightly we’d all need sunglasses inside. Even the dog poop would be twinkly.
In honor of my darling daughter’s successful promotion to second grade, I’d like to highlight the key lessons we’ve managed to absorb this year.
1. When your teacher is throwing up in the classroom sink, it’s polite to hand her a paper towel.
2. Oreo cookies are not considered a healthy snack, despite the fact that a single serving contains 4 percent of the recommended daily allowance of fiber.
3. The meanest girls have blonde hair and are unbearably cute. Key word: unbearably.
4. Enlightening your first grade class about same sex marriage can be awkward for the teacher.
5. School officials think a tiny little case of conjunctivitis is grounds for a quarantine.
6. If you wear a Jonas Brothers t-shirt, boys will (accurately) accuse you of being in love with the Jonas Brothers.
7. Mrs. D had to go the hospital because she has a kidney!
8. Having a playdate with a friend who talks about kissing boys on the lips can send your mother spiraling into apoplexy.
9. It’s good to know how to walk home from the bus stop by yourself in case your parents can’t read the bus schedule and wait at the wrong place at the wrong time on the stormiest, coldest day of the year.
10. A Starburst left at the the bottom of your backpack for months on end can still pack the same flavor, but with a little extra fuzz.
We just hope that, despite all the cuts in public education, the next dozen years prove to be equally as productive.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
A Turtle Life
Today was the Pterodactyl’s last day of preschool before summer. It was a Beach Party, except we didn’t do it at the beach, so the only water was inside of the water balloons, and the only breeze was the occasional kid sneezing.
But it was cute, of course, with big hugs and smooches from the preschool teachers and a bunch of 4-year-olds arguing about who got the biggest goody bag.
“Another year!” said my friend, Mother of the Year. “It goes so fast!”
“You think so?” I asked. “Because really, I’m not finding that.”
It’s true! Oh, the years pass quickly, I suppose. It’s already June, tomorrow’s the Fourth of July and pretty soon I’ll be perusing the dregs of the Halloween costume display at Target trying to talk the Diva into being a Goth Witch with pink hair.
But the days! The hours! The minutes till bedtime! It’s a grind, I tell you, and maybe I’m just a grumpy shrew, but I think more than a few of you know exactly what I’m talking about.
If the Tyrant poops in her underpants one more time, I swear I’m going to start giving her Immodium. If the Pterodactyl doesn’t stop calling me Pee-pee-head, I’m going to give him a soapy mouth. I mean it. And the Diva - she’s pretty fucking perfect - but really, she loses every single thing she owns every single day. How am I supposed to know the secret spot where she hid her yearbook so that I wouldn’t find it?
And this daily routine! I am Sisyphus, I tell you. The kitchen is clean every morning, and then suddenly my checkbook is stuck to the counter with maple syrup glue. All of the Tupperware has been organized, and then it’s all being used as hospital beds for Webkinz. I finally fix the hinge on the storage ottoman, then Pterodactyl draws a blue ghost on it that honestly looks like a smiling penis. And no, Sharpie ink doesn’t come off of leather.
I count the hours until naptime, which only give me 1/3 relief as only 1/3 of the brood naps. Then I count the hours until 5 pm when I can have a glass of wine - and yes, I know, that’s a problem all its own, and I’ll deal with that another time - and then I count the hours till bedtime.
I really, madly, desperately love my kids...so why do I hail bedtime as something akin to the Rapture?
Well. On that note, Tyrant just did it again. She’s dancing through it, but I’m going to clean her up. It’s nap time.
But it was cute, of course, with big hugs and smooches from the preschool teachers and a bunch of 4-year-olds arguing about who got the biggest goody bag.
“Another year!” said my friend, Mother of the Year. “It goes so fast!”
“You think so?” I asked. “Because really, I’m not finding that.”
It’s true! Oh, the years pass quickly, I suppose. It’s already June, tomorrow’s the Fourth of July and pretty soon I’ll be perusing the dregs of the Halloween costume display at Target trying to talk the Diva into being a Goth Witch with pink hair.
But the days! The hours! The minutes till bedtime! It’s a grind, I tell you, and maybe I’m just a grumpy shrew, but I think more than a few of you know exactly what I’m talking about.
If the Tyrant poops in her underpants one more time, I swear I’m going to start giving her Immodium. If the Pterodactyl doesn’t stop calling me Pee-pee-head, I’m going to give him a soapy mouth. I mean it. And the Diva - she’s pretty fucking perfect - but really, she loses every single thing she owns every single day. How am I supposed to know the secret spot where she hid her yearbook so that I wouldn’t find it?
And this daily routine! I am Sisyphus, I tell you. The kitchen is clean every morning, and then suddenly my checkbook is stuck to the counter with maple syrup glue. All of the Tupperware has been organized, and then it’s all being used as hospital beds for Webkinz. I finally fix the hinge on the storage ottoman, then Pterodactyl draws a blue ghost on it that honestly looks like a smiling penis. And no, Sharpie ink doesn’t come off of leather.
I count the hours until naptime, which only give me 1/3 relief as only 1/3 of the brood naps. Then I count the hours until 5 pm when I can have a glass of wine - and yes, I know, that’s a problem all its own, and I’ll deal with that another time - and then I count the hours till bedtime.
I really, madly, desperately love my kids...so why do I hail bedtime as something akin to the Rapture?
Well. On that note, Tyrant just did it again. She’s dancing through it, but I’m going to clean her up. It’s nap time.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
The Love of a Boy
My son has a crush on his preschool teacher. While taking a bath last night, he told me, “I want my hair to be all clean, so Miss Rebecca will say, ooh, that smells good.”
I’m not sure how much hair-smelling Miss Rebecca does, but I know she’s luckier than last year’s teacher, who was rather well-endowed. At the end of the year, Miss Sheila said, “We love our Nico. I call him our little perv.” As in pervert. Because each time Sheila would offer him a hug, or a snuggle, she’d feel his little hand sneaking under her blouse toward her breast.
My 3-year-old son, copping a feel off his pre-school teacher. I thought he only did that to me.
My son is the funniest person I know. Like all kids, he’s a sponge. He throws back my phrases and admonitions daily, making me feel like a shrew. “Mind your business!” he yells at his sister. “You take care of your own self!”
Some things I assume he learned in preschool, like “Zip it, lock it, put it in your pocket!” The other night at dinner, we asked him to say the blessing. He sang in his adorable off-key rasp: “Listen carefully, listen carefully, hear my voice, hear my voice. We are getting ready, we are getting ready, to clean up toys, clean up toys.”
I have three children, and Nico is the middle child. Last year, when we brought home his little sister, it pretty much ruined his life. I had anticipated the chaos of having three children; I had anticipated that life would be crazy, that I wouldn’t have as much time to myself, that I’d cook less and read less and do more laundry. I didn’t anticipate Nico’s complete and utter grief. For months, he was the saddest child I had ever seen.
He likes to measure his love for people, and those closest to him, he loves “five.” Sometimes he even loves me “ten.” When he’s mad, he loves me one.
For a long time, he loved his sister zero, though now he loves her more since he gets sent to time out if he doesn’t. Forced love.
One night Nico didn’t want to go to bed. I finally resorted to yelling at him, and he yelled back. “You go to jail, Mom! Go to jail!”
I said fine, I’ll go to jail if you’ll go to bed, and he agreed. But he snuck out of bed to see where I was, and when he found me on the couch, he started fussing again. “That’s not jail!” And so then I felt obligated to have a heated discussion about why it’s inappropriate to send your mother to jail.
Finally, I wore him out, and tucked him for the final time. “Give me a kiss,” I said, and he did. “That makes Mommy so happy,” I said.
He pulled my face close to his, looked into my eyes, and whispered, “I don’t want you to be happy.”
I’m not sure how much hair-smelling Miss Rebecca does, but I know she’s luckier than last year’s teacher, who was rather well-endowed. At the end of the year, Miss Sheila said, “We love our Nico. I call him our little perv.” As in pervert. Because each time Sheila would offer him a hug, or a snuggle, she’d feel his little hand sneaking under her blouse toward her breast.
My 3-year-old son, copping a feel off his pre-school teacher. I thought he only did that to me.
My son is the funniest person I know. Like all kids, he’s a sponge. He throws back my phrases and admonitions daily, making me feel like a shrew. “Mind your business!” he yells at his sister. “You take care of your own self!”
Some things I assume he learned in preschool, like “Zip it, lock it, put it in your pocket!” The other night at dinner, we asked him to say the blessing. He sang in his adorable off-key rasp: “Listen carefully, listen carefully, hear my voice, hear my voice. We are getting ready, we are getting ready, to clean up toys, clean up toys.”
I have three children, and Nico is the middle child. Last year, when we brought home his little sister, it pretty much ruined his life. I had anticipated the chaos of having three children; I had anticipated that life would be crazy, that I wouldn’t have as much time to myself, that I’d cook less and read less and do more laundry. I didn’t anticipate Nico’s complete and utter grief. For months, he was the saddest child I had ever seen.
He likes to measure his love for people, and those closest to him, he loves “five.” Sometimes he even loves me “ten.” When he’s mad, he loves me one.
For a long time, he loved his sister zero, though now he loves her more since he gets sent to time out if he doesn’t. Forced love.
One night Nico didn’t want to go to bed. I finally resorted to yelling at him, and he yelled back. “You go to jail, Mom! Go to jail!”
I said fine, I’ll go to jail if you’ll go to bed, and he agreed. But he snuck out of bed to see where I was, and when he found me on the couch, he started fussing again. “That’s not jail!” And so then I felt obligated to have a heated discussion about why it’s inappropriate to send your mother to jail.
Finally, I wore him out, and tucked him for the final time. “Give me a kiss,” I said, and he did. “That makes Mommy so happy,” I said.
He pulled my face close to his, looked into my eyes, and whispered, “I don’t want you to be happy.”
Sheet
My 2-year-old now says “shit.” She was playing with my cell phone, and she said, “Shit. I forgot.” And in case I wanted to delude myself into thinking she said, “sheep,” or “ship,” she then said, “Shit. Oh shit.”
At the time the kids were having dinner. It was kids choice: they chose oatmeal, Mac n’cheese and smoothies. Neale had smoothie-infused mac n’cheese.
It’s bad enough that Neale and Nico both say “Damage” as a curse word. The intent is there – they think they’re saying dammit, just like, oh, mom, for example. But they say “damage,” which I don’t correct, because for one thing it’s a perfectly acceptable word, and for another thing, they might as well learn now how to use obscenities in an inoffensive way. Which does not include saying “shit,” particularly when you’re two and rarely wear pants.
Now I can’t really blame Neale for saying shit, since she’s not had a great day. Nico made her a breakfast of Cheez-Its and raisins but he ate all the Cheez-Its and she doesn’t like raisins. Then I let her sit in an ant pile, and continued chatting away even as Neale began screaming because I thought maybe she was just getting tired.
So Neale got about a 100 ant bites (that’s conservative, by the way), a trip to the doctor and a lot of Benadryl, which made her cranky and led to her passing out in her mother’s bed and waking up when she peed in said bed. She did manage to pee on Dear Husband’s side, though, and Dear Husband never notices those things.
In addition, Nico bopped Neale on the head at least five times today, including once with a wooden flute.
If I was Neale, I would be saying worse things than shit. But still….it’s not cool, and I know that, and obviously I now know that I’ve got to work harder to clean up my fucking language.
I am thinking of reviving some oldies but goodies, like Jeez Louise!,, Durnit!, and my personal favorite, used by my grandfather, Got Doggit! But it will take time.
At any rate, if you happen to be hanging out with me and hear my daughter cursing, just smile at her and say, “Wow! You see a ship?”
At the time the kids were having dinner. It was kids choice: they chose oatmeal, Mac n’cheese and smoothies. Neale had smoothie-infused mac n’cheese.
It’s bad enough that Neale and Nico both say “Damage” as a curse word. The intent is there – they think they’re saying dammit, just like, oh, mom, for example. But they say “damage,” which I don’t correct, because for one thing it’s a perfectly acceptable word, and for another thing, they might as well learn now how to use obscenities in an inoffensive way. Which does not include saying “shit,” particularly when you’re two and rarely wear pants.
Now I can’t really blame Neale for saying shit, since she’s not had a great day. Nico made her a breakfast of Cheez-Its and raisins but he ate all the Cheez-Its and she doesn’t like raisins. Then I let her sit in an ant pile, and continued chatting away even as Neale began screaming because I thought maybe she was just getting tired.
So Neale got about a 100 ant bites (that’s conservative, by the way), a trip to the doctor and a lot of Benadryl, which made her cranky and led to her passing out in her mother’s bed and waking up when she peed in said bed. She did manage to pee on Dear Husband’s side, though, and Dear Husband never notices those things.
In addition, Nico bopped Neale on the head at least five times today, including once with a wooden flute.
If I was Neale, I would be saying worse things than shit. But still….it’s not cool, and I know that, and obviously I now know that I’ve got to work harder to clean up my fucking language.
I am thinking of reviving some oldies but goodies, like Jeez Louise!,, Durnit!, and my personal favorite, used by my grandfather, Got Doggit! But it will take time.
At any rate, if you happen to be hanging out with me and hear my daughter cursing, just smile at her and say, “Wow! You see a ship?”
Monday, June 1, 2009
The Unfortunate Incident Involving the Neighbor, the Newspaper and an Onion
Motherhood has imbued me with a certain sense of entitlement that I’m not at all entitled to have.
When someone honks a horn at me because I accidentally weave out of my lane because I’m reaching behind my seat to shove a sippy cup in somebody’s mouth, I think, “Hey! I got three little kids here!”
When I leave the Starbucks table covered with crumbs and spilled milk, I think, “Gimme a break! I got three little kids!”
When I let my children watch three consecutive hours of SpongeBob Squarepants, I usually feel completely justified. “Hey!” I think. “I need a break! I got three little kids!”
So when I woke up last Saturday - or when the 2-year-old Tyrant poked me in the back at 6 a.m. wearing sunglasses and carrying a purse and saying she wanted to watch teebee - I felt reasonably okay about swiping the neighbor’s newspaper.
I did have to talk myself into it. It was an oversight, I thought. The paper guy skipped us, which isn’t really fair, and I’m the one up at 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning and I’m the one who needs the paper the most. I’m the one who has to watch insipid toddler shows. I deserved the paper. We paid for the paper. We’ll just pretend the paper guy skipped George’s house instead. Or maybe I’ll drink my coffee, read the paper, then fold it up and put it back in the green sleeve and throw it in their driveway. They always sleep late anyway (though we haven’t lived here long, and I really have no idea what time they get up).
But the morning got away from me as usual. The Diva wanted her waffles with the burnt part cut off. The Pterodactyl wanted his hot dog with the mustard squirted in a perfectly squiggly line. The Tyrant pooped on the floor. I mean, would they really want the paper back?
I had nearly succeeded in smothering the incident when Husband admitted to me that he had paid the bill late. We’d been cut off.
That changed everything. It was not an oversight at all. No unfairness. Just slackers.
I spent the entire day making up lies to cover my tracks. My daughter grabbed the wrong paper! The dog chewed it up! Weren’t there meteors in the area?
Oh, the guilt. It nibbled at me like a rat.
That night, we were having dinner guests. As I cooked, I realized I needed an onion.
I don’t really know the other neighbors well enough to borrow anything, so I sent the Diva over to Mr. George’s house, sort of hoping they wouldn’t be home, but they were, and she came back with an onion. My shame intensified.
“You must never, ever tell them,” says Husband. So I didn’t. But I posted about it on Facebook as a sort of confession. It didn’t go over well. “You’re an inveterate thief,” said Josh. “Stealing is stealing,” said Donna.
And now I can hardly look at their house any more. Over the past two days, I’ve baked them muffins, picked up dog poop from their yard (not even my dog’s), and complimented George’s wife Ann on her clothes. And I keep thinking, either they know, or they think I’m stalking them.
The good news is that my sense of entitlement has certainly been stifled, at least when it comes to stealing. Frankly, I just find the guilt too exhausting. But you should still avoid my table at Starbucks. Plus, now that I think about it, last time I was there, I took a newspaper. And I was by myself. But gimme a break after all. I got three kids...
When someone honks a horn at me because I accidentally weave out of my lane because I’m reaching behind my seat to shove a sippy cup in somebody’s mouth, I think, “Hey! I got three little kids here!”
When I leave the Starbucks table covered with crumbs and spilled milk, I think, “Gimme a break! I got three little kids!”
When I let my children watch three consecutive hours of SpongeBob Squarepants, I usually feel completely justified. “Hey!” I think. “I need a break! I got three little kids!”
So when I woke up last Saturday - or when the 2-year-old Tyrant poked me in the back at 6 a.m. wearing sunglasses and carrying a purse and saying she wanted to watch teebee - I felt reasonably okay about swiping the neighbor’s newspaper.
I did have to talk myself into it. It was an oversight, I thought. The paper guy skipped us, which isn’t really fair, and I’m the one up at 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning and I’m the one who needs the paper the most. I’m the one who has to watch insipid toddler shows. I deserved the paper. We paid for the paper. We’ll just pretend the paper guy skipped George’s house instead. Or maybe I’ll drink my coffee, read the paper, then fold it up and put it back in the green sleeve and throw it in their driveway. They always sleep late anyway (though we haven’t lived here long, and I really have no idea what time they get up).
But the morning got away from me as usual. The Diva wanted her waffles with the burnt part cut off. The Pterodactyl wanted his hot dog with the mustard squirted in a perfectly squiggly line. The Tyrant pooped on the floor. I mean, would they really want the paper back?
I had nearly succeeded in smothering the incident when Husband admitted to me that he had paid the bill late. We’d been cut off.
That changed everything. It was not an oversight at all. No unfairness. Just slackers.
I spent the entire day making up lies to cover my tracks. My daughter grabbed the wrong paper! The dog chewed it up! Weren’t there meteors in the area?
Oh, the guilt. It nibbled at me like a rat.
That night, we were having dinner guests. As I cooked, I realized I needed an onion.
I don’t really know the other neighbors well enough to borrow anything, so I sent the Diva over to Mr. George’s house, sort of hoping they wouldn’t be home, but they were, and she came back with an onion. My shame intensified.
“You must never, ever tell them,” says Husband. So I didn’t. But I posted about it on Facebook as a sort of confession. It didn’t go over well. “You’re an inveterate thief,” said Josh. “Stealing is stealing,” said Donna.
And now I can hardly look at their house any more. Over the past two days, I’ve baked them muffins, picked up dog poop from their yard (not even my dog’s), and complimented George’s wife Ann on her clothes. And I keep thinking, either they know, or they think I’m stalking them.
The good news is that my sense of entitlement has certainly been stifled, at least when it comes to stealing. Frankly, I just find the guilt too exhausting. But you should still avoid my table at Starbucks. Plus, now that I think about it, last time I was there, I took a newspaper. And I was by myself. But gimme a break after all. I got three kids...
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